Caesar's Lord, page 13
I’ve got to get out there tonight, Rex realized, or there will be no catching up.
Off to the side of Aenus’s harbor was an enclosure where the port authority boats were moored. The fastest-looking craft was a little sailboat with one of the new lateen sails. Its crew consisted of two oafs making crude banter and foolishly cooking their dinner over a charcoal brazier on board.
Glancing around, Rex spotted a supply chest sitting on the dock nearby. He discovered nothing of value inside except the one item he had hoped to find: the distinctive cap that all the Licinian sailors wore. Its insignia was the eagle and thunderbolt of Jupiter. Rex donned it and approached the two buffoons in the sailboat.
“Get up,” he commanded with feigned authority. He brandished the wax tablet. “I’ve just come from the battlefront, and I’ve got a message from Licinius himself. I have to get out to Crispus right away.”
One of the sailors looked scared and started to comply, but the other man’s fat face drooped into a scowl. “Prove it!” he spat.
Rex stepped on board—careful not to overturn the hot brazier—and opened the tablet. “See here?” He pointed to the letters scratched into the wax, which reported the trap that Abantus had laid. “Clearly, you can see how Emperor Licinius seeks fair terms and a parley for peace with his beloved nephew. And there is his personal seal, pressed into the wax by his own signet.”
“I see it!” Fat Face said with indignation in his voice. “Do ya think I’m some kinda fool? I can read letters as good as you.”
“Of course you can. So hoist the sail, and let’s get out to the Faithful before she catches a night breeze and is gone.”
Rex used thick rags to pick up the brazier and dump the charcoal overboard while the two scruffy crewmen got the dinghy out of the harbor. The lateen sail made her unusually swift, raising a nice ruffle at her prow as she sliced toward the emperor’s flagship. Though the sun had already gone down, a round moon illumined the bay with a bright glow.
“They might shoot the ballista at us,” Fat Face said as the sailboat drew near. “They know we’re Licinians. They’ll wonder what we’re up to.”
Rex tied one of the rags onto a short javelin. “I’ll signal for a truce. Now, pull us close, and don’t do anything stupid.” For once in your life.
“Halt where you are!” came a sharp command from the high deck of the Faithful.
“Important message from Constantine!” Rex called back as he waved his flag. “We come as allies!” He glanced over his shoulder at the two crewmen and added, “That should fool them. They’ll think I’m from their own leader.” The sailors guffawed at the clever ruse.
“Draw alongside, stranger. One wrong move and we open a hole in you the size of an egg!”
Rex had no intention of doing anything to invite a ballista bolt from the main deck. After discarding his Licinian cap, he remained calm and unthreatening as a rope ladder was dropped. He ascended it, then clambered aboard the Faithful and was immediately surrounded by marines with their swords drawn.
“As you can see, I am unarmed. I come only with this.” Rex held out the tablet toward the centurion who faced him.
“What is it?”
“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s a message from Constantine. I have come straight here from the battlefront at Hadrianopolis. This morning we learned there’s an ambush waiting for you in the Hellespont.”
A look of concern immediately came to the centurion’s face. “An ambush?”
“Yes. Admiral Abantus awaits in hidden coves to attack you when the going is hardest. It’s all in this message.” Rex opened the tablet. “And here is the seal of Constantine, which Crispus will surely recognize as authentic.”
The centurion took the tablet from Rex. As he scanned it, his eyes widened in alarm. Turning to his optio, he said, “Go tell the pilot to drop anchor and furl the sail. We aren’t going anywhere until we get this figured out.”
From over his shoulder, Rex heard a clear and authoritative voice say, “Well done!”
He turned. It was Caesar Crispus, dressed in the kind of military splendor that befitted a fleet commander. A gold circlet was upon his brow and a purple cape was around his shoulders. He carried an admiral’s baton.
Rex put his fist to his heart and dipped his head. “I am just obeying the commands of my lord,” he said.
“As am I,” Crispus replied.
The Hellespont looked to Caesar Crispus more like a wide river than the sea lane it actually was. It’s got a current like a river too, he thought, having battled it all morning and finally broken through to more placid waters. The waterway, pinched by land on either side, formed a long connection between the Euxine Sea and the Aegean. The constant exchange of water between those two seas made navigating up the Hellespont especially difficult. Admiral Abantus’s ambush would have been disastrous had the speculator Rex not brought news of it just in time.
But armed with the knowledge of the waiting ships, Crispus had spent the previous day drawing out the ambush and neutralizing it. He had sent some liburnians up the Hellespont on high alert and ready for an immediate retreat, which they performed as soon as the enemy came out of hiding. Having lost the element of surprise, Abantus’s slower, heavier ships couldn’t catch Crispus’s more nimble ones as they scooted away. The enemy’s triremes were left bobbing in the middle of the strait, impotent and frustrated. The initial confrontation was chalked up as a draw, and the game board was reset for a second match. This time, it would be admiral against admiral in a fair fight, and may the best man win.
“I see them, sir!” called down an eagle-eyed youth who had shimmied up the mast of the Faithful.
“What formation are they in?”
“It’s a blockade strategy, sir. All the way across the waterway. I’d estimate two hundred ships in all.”
Just as I suspected. Crispus chuckled at his opponent’s predictability. A wall of triremes from shore to shore. And behind it was the grand prize: the city of Byzantium, where Licinius was safely ensconced. Though one side of the city faced Constantine’s land army, the three other sides faced the sea, which would provide easy resupply with food, water, and more troops. Licinius had nothing to fear in a setup like that. Everything hinged on who had control of the waters around Byzantium.
Crispus went to the stern of his ship, where his pilot manned the steerboard. The Faithful was, like most of Crispus’s fleet, a long, slender liburnian with a single row of fifteen oars on each side of the hull. Though he had some heavier ships in reserve, his strategy today called for using these so-called “thirty-polers” to their maximum efficiency.
The ancient wisdom among navy men was that monoreme warships couldn’t take on triremes. A single level of oars was deemed inferior to three decks when it came to top-end speed and sheer bulk for ramming. But the rising generation of naval theorists had realized that neither speed nor size was the essential thing in battle. Agility mattered most. Crispus believed it too—not just in theory, but enough to stake his fleet, and perhaps his life, on the validity of the new wisdom.
“It’s time,” he told the pilot whose hand was on the steering oar. “My officers have been ordered to follow my lead today, so you must do exactly as I say.”
“Aye, sir,” the weather-beaten pilot said, “and may the Lord be with us.”
Crispus set his eyes on the dark line of enemy ships that blocked his way. “Right up the middle we go, straight toward the Dominant like David charging at Goliath. No fear. Just faith. You may commence action.”
The signals were relayed down to the beat keeper, and the oars began to turn. The pilot set a course through the center of the strait in the deepest part of the Hellespont. Eighty ships had been detached from Crispus’s fleet—all light, fast monoremes taking on warships that weighed twice as much. Yet they were swift and eager for the fight. The galleys formed a triangular arrowhead aimed at the center of the enemy blockade, with the Faithful at the tip of the point.
“Paddleships ahead!” cried the lookout from the mast.
The announcement surprised everyone, including Crispus. The paddleship was a recent invention not previously used in war. Some generals even refused to believe they existed, claiming they were just a rumor, though numerous spies insisted they had seen them. These massive ships had capstans below deck that were turned by yokes of oxen. A set of gears transferred the rotation of the capstans to paddlewheels on either side of the hull. Once the wheels got turning, they could propel a battleship at speeds human rowers could never achieve. The weight of the ship, with all its interior machinery, gave it colossal force when it finally rammed an opponent.
Assuming they can catch the opponent, Crispus reminded himself. He resolved not to let that happen and instead decided to take out a paddleship today.
The blockade of enemy galleys looked impenetrable as the Constantinian attackers sped toward them. Crispus knew his men’s fighting spirit was high, for these were bold and experienced sailors. At the same time, the attack had an audacious or even foolish air that couldn’t help but raise the tension. What could puny liburnians do against the naval power Licinius possessed?
“Cease rowing,” Crispus told his pilot.
“But sir,” the man said nervously, “they’ll be able to—”
“Just do it!”
“Right away, sir,” replied the chastened pilot. With a single command, the Faithful immediately slowed.
Now the attacking fleet of Constantinian ships drifted toward the center of the Licinian blockade on their own momentum. The crimson banner of Jupiter rippled on the staff of Abantus’s flagship. Flanking the Dominant were two paddleships whose prows were painted with angry yellow eyes. Affixed to the stem at the waterline were fierce bronze spikes for ramming. The behemoths seemed like fierce mastiffs guarding their master on either side.
“Come about,” Crispus ordered. “Prepare to turn and run.”
The pilot’s face betrayed a shocked, even angry, expression as he received the command. “We don’t have time to get away! They’ll surround us!”
“Steady,” Crispus said, his eyes fixed on the enemy line. “Wait for my orders.”
Having broken off their swift attack, the cluster of eighty Constantinian ships sat idly in the water before the line of two hundred triremes. The tempting bait was more than the battle-hungry enemy could resist. Lured by what looked like vulnerable prey, Abantus’s flagship surged ahead on the strength of its three tiers of oars. The paddleships advanced along with them. And down the line on either side, the triremes began to close on their victim like a crocodile’s jaws snapping onto a juicy tidbit.
“They believe our courage has failed,” said Crispus, “and they suppose victory is at hand.”
“Sir, we’ve got to move!” The pilot’s voice was urgent. “We’ll be slaughtered! Shall I give the order to attack?”
“Hold still.”
Now the Dominant was so close that Crispus could see the warriors’ eager faces upon its prow. Both lines of the crocodile’s jaws had closed fast, and the cluster of Constantinian ships was about to get hit hard by a flanking maneuver from either side. Even so, Crispus held his ships in place.
“God help us,” the pilot said.
“He will,” Crispus replied, then launched his ships into action.
Following the lead of the Faithful, the eighty liburnians engaged their oars and began to row at top speed. The agile ships—each one having been told beforehand what to do—aimed for the open sea through the gaps between the triremes that were bearing down on them. Like water trickling through the holes in a sieve, the galleys of Crispus found openings wherever they could and darted past the enemy craft. Sometimes the triremes tried to close the gaps to prevent escape, but the liburnians were quick enough to adjust their course into the new gap created on the other side. A few of the ponderous warships even crashed into each other or enmeshed their oars as they sought to corral the escaping liburnians. Although futile volleys of arrows were launched as the swifter ships slid past, none of the liburnians took a ramming from Abantus’s fearsome navy.
After clearing the knot of enemy ships, Crispus found himself under a bright, blue sky in wide-open space. “This is our time!” he cried. “Come about hard and press the attack!” The pilot—now with a big grin on his face—immediately complied. And all the other liburnians did the same.
As the Faithful completed a graceful turn, Crispus was gratified to discover that the Licinian ships were still a jumbled mess in the middle of the Hellespont. After their prey had slipped by untouched, their own momentum had carried them toward their comrades who were closing from the other side. Shouts of confusion and angry orders arose from the frothing mass of tangled battleships. No one had any room to turn or maneuver. As soon as any of the rowers put their oars into the sea, the pinewood shafts struck the oars of the adjacent ships trying to do the same. Their prows were all pointed toward each other, and their sterns were exposed to rear attack.
“Hit them hard, boys!” Crispus called to his oarsmen below deck. “Full speed ahead.”
“Straight up the sternpost, sir?” The pilot’s former anxiety had now turned to glee. His long hair was blowing in the wind, and sea spray glistened in his beard. The longtime navy man recognized a victory when he saw it. And he was about to get a good one.
“Knock a hole in their arse!” Crispus replied with a grin, then braced for impact.
One by one, the liburnians smashed the enemy triremes in their rear quarters. That area of the hull was a galley’s weak point, for the high, curving sternpost did not allow fighters to congregate there for defense. Normally, a warship would never let its stern be exposed like that. But today the triremes were too entangled with one another to take evasive action. All they could do was clench and wait.
Crispus had ordered each of his ships to take out two enemies if they could. In solidarity with his men, he first rammed a trireme straight on its sternpost where it met the waterline. The timbers crunched under the force of impact, and sea water rushed into the breached hull, making the craft list dangerously. The steering oar on the starboard side was broken as well. Crispus’s experienced rowers immediately reversed their strokes, backing out the Faithful so it wouldn’t be dragged down with the sinking ship.
But Crispus wasn’t finished. Scanning the chaotic scene around him, he finally spotted one of the paddleships. Although it wasn’t very maneuverable, it had used its bulk to plow its way into open waters again. “Hit that paddlewheel broadside,” he ordered. “All ballistae and archers to the fore, now!”
The troops obeyed and immediately began to fire on their opponent. The enemy ship, of course, had missiles of its own to launch. A barrage of arrows whistled toward the Faithful as it made its deadly approach. One of the ballista bolts impaled the mainmast with a loud thunk! Though some of Crispus’s archers fell before the onslaught, the ship kept surging ahead.
When the impact finally came, it shook Crispus so hard that he stumbled to his knees. Once again, the Faithful immediately backed out. Only then could Crispus see that the paddlewheel had been reduced to splinters. As he left the crippled ship behind, he caught the sound of terrified oxen bellowing from inside the hold.
“Victory!” cried all the soldiers and rowers as they surveyed the damage their attack had caused. And they were right. Broken and immobilized triremes were strewn everywhere. Some had even capsized or begun to sink. The ones that had escaped damage had retreated. The day had gone to Constantine in every way.
With the Licinian blockade shattered, Crispus’s entire fleet could now proceed up the Hellespont. A smoke signal was raised to summon the rest of the ships. “Head for Kallipolis,” Crispus instructed his pilot. “We’ll shelter there overnight and finish this thing tomorrow.”
Feeling exuberant after the great victory, the devout helmsman held the rudder in one hand and raised his other palm to the sky. “Praise God!” he exclaimed. “David has defeated Goliath!”
But Crispus shook his head. “Not yet, my friend. Byzantium still awaits.”
4
JULY 324
Rex could only laugh as he wiped sweat from his face with his new handkerchief. The cloth was red, and there was a little piece of gold embroidery on it, a fragment of a lightning bolt that symbolized Jupiter’s power. It was cut from the flag of the Dominant, which had been breached in Crispus’s attack, then was smashed on jagged rocks the next day when an afternoon thunderstorm caught the remaining Licinian ships too close to the shore and ran them aground. In all, three hundred and fifty Licinian ships were destroyed in the two days of combat, and the enemy navy was no more. After capturing Admiral Abantus, Crispus cut his war banner into little squares to award to those who had contributed to the win. Rex was glad to have a token of the victory. Yet he was even more pleased that the Battle of the Hellespont had, like the Battle of Hadrianopolis before it, gone to Emperor Constantine.
“Using it as a sweat rag, eh?”
Rex turned from his quiet spot in the prow of the Faithful to see Crispus approaching him. “It’s a hot day, Your Majesty. The rag is just what I need.”
“I like to use mine like this.” Crispus loudly blew his nose into his square of red cloth. “Oops. Sorry, Jupiter.”
Rex chuckled at the emperor’s impudent action. I like this man, he thought, though he kept the sentiment to himself lest it sound like flattery.
Crispus gestured toward the distant horizon as his flagship moved farther up the Hellespont. “We should be in sight of Byzantium’s walls by sundown. Have you ever seen it, Rex?”
“Never have. Heard a lot about it, though.”
“It’s an incredible city! The Greeks founded it, you know. Around the same time as Rome. And they picked a great spot. It sits on the Bosporus Strait, which is like the Hellespont but even narrower. Nobody can get from the Euxine Sea into the Mediterranean without sailing right past Byzantium.”
